CHAPTER VI.
VICTORIA AND "THE QUEEN."
"Vancouver," began Mr. Percival that afternoon, "is the baby city ofthe Northwest." They were in a barouche, five of them, driving throughStanley Park.
"What do you mean by that, sir?" asked his nephew.
"Why, it's less than six years old, Randolph. Yet it has a populationof over fifteen thousand. Six years ago to-day there was a dense forestwhere these great brick and stone buildings now stand."
"Wasn't it burned once, father?" asked Tom, anxious to show the resultof his reading.
"When it was two months old," replied Mr. Percival, "every house butone was destroyed by fire. Now it is one of the most prosperous andwell-managed cities in the Dominion."
"I noticed in the Canadian Pacific time-tables," put in Fred, "thatthere is a regular line of steamers running from Vancouver to Japan andChina."
"What kind of trees are these, driver?" asked Randolph.
"Douglas fir and cedar, mostly," said the driver, who proved to be aVermont man. "The big ones are cedar."
Big ones they were, truly; with trunks, or, in some cases, mere stumps,twenty to forty feet in diameter. The driver explained that in theearly days of the city these magnificent trees were often ruthlesslydestroyed, merely to get them out of the way. At last the cityauthorities took the matter in hand, and preserved a large tract offorest land, now called Stanley Park, for the permanent enjoyment ofthe people.
The road was a beautiful one, and in some places the travelers couldcatch glimpses of the broad Pacific, true to its name, breaking inslow, gentle waves on the beach just below.
At sunset the whole party boarded the steamer _Islander_, and thesix hours' moonlight sail that followed was more like fairy-land thananything they had yet seen.
The calm waters of the Gulf of Georgia, silvered and peaceful in themidsummer moonlight, stretched away on every side, broken only bywooded islands and the jutting promontories of Vancouver's; while faraway to the southwest Mount Baker's snowy peak rose, pale and serene,among the clouds.
The young people sang all their "Kamloops" songs over and over, themusic adding the one needful touch to the scene.
On arriving at the wharf in Victoria, they were glad to make their waythrough the noisy crowd of hackmen to the carriages reserved for theirparty, and take refuge in the Driard, where they were to rest for thenext two days.
* * * * *
"Have you a piece of string, pa?"
It was a simple, kindly-faced little woman who asked the question,looking up to her husband, the gardener.
Randolph and Pet had taken a long walk through the streets of thecity of Victoria, and out among the scattered houses and fields thatborder the way. Presently they reached a pretty cottage almost hiddenfrom sight by a mass of climbing honeysuckle. In the garden beside itgrew a profusion of old-fashioned flowers--stocks, sweet mignonette,geraniums, and many others.
A bed of lovely pansies attracted Pet's attention.
"Oh! do you suppose they would sell some?"
"We'll soon see," and sure enough, there was "Ma" upon the littlepiazza, beaming with hospitality and pleasure at the approach ofvisitors.
She set to work at once gathering pansies, and while she arranged hernosegay, the two Bostonians talked with her husband, who, it seemed,was an Englishman, and earned his living from his garden, which hewas just watering. He took especial pride in his fuchsias, which grewin lovely abundance and variety all around his door. Sweet peas werethere, too, the vines nearly as high as your head, all covered withdainty "painted ladies."
"Pa" having furnished the string, Randolph received (for twenty cents)a great bunch of pansies. The little saleswoman then added a stalk ofgillyflower and a scarlet geranium for buttonholes, and with a smilingface said good-by.
The pansies were soon transferred, Pet keeping the gillyflower in herdress until she was out of sight, "so as not to hurt Ma's feelings,"and then replacing it by the pretty "thoughts."
Later in the day they visited the Chinese quarter of the city, incompany with Tom and his inseparable kodak.
There was a delightful baby in one of the shops, and Tom begged hardto be allowed to "snap" it, but the parents said "No," and could notbe moved to relent, though they did offer the photographer a livegold-fish as some compensation for the refused privilege.
Mr. Percival also took his charges to the splendid naval station ofEsquimault, where the Pacific Squadron of English ships were lying atanchor.
The Percivals hired a man (from Connecticut) to row them out in a boatto the great _War Spite_ over which they were shown by a smart Britishsailor boy in blue. They were deeply interested in her great cannon,throwing a three hundred pound ball, her massive machinery, and hervicious-looking steel torpedoes, which run under water, and are guidedby an electric wire connected with the ship. "You can guess the sizeof the vessel," wrote Randolph to a friend that night, "when you learnthat six hundred men are now quartered in her."
Just at dusk, on the second day in Victoria, they went on board thegood ship _Queen_, which was waiting to bear them northward to therugged coast, the island-studded gulfs and bays, and the eternalice-rivers of Alaska.
For a long time that evening they walked the deck, Kittie pacingside by side with Fred Seacomb, Randolph telling Pet of his Freshmanstruggles and triumphs and pleasures at Harvard, Tom talking eagerlywith his father, whose arm he took as they went to and fro, or pausedto look out over the quiet waters, or the twinkling lights of Victoria.Adelaide, Bess, Rossiter and Mrs. Percival formed a cosey groupreclining in their steamer-chairs in the shelter of the stateroomswhich they were to occupy that night.
At six the next morning the passengers felt the first thrill whichtold that the _Queen_ had begun her voyage. Hastily they dressed, andemerged one by one from their staterooms, to gain every moment of thisenchanted day.
The voyage northward led through narrow channels, where one couldalmost toss a biscuit ashore on either side; across open stretchesof the blue Pacific, whose great waves rocked them gently; along thebase of lofty mountains, with wild, untraveled forests growing on thewater's very edge.
Soon they began to see Indian encampments, or solitary natives,paddling their queer-shaped, dug-out canoes. Whales rose solemnlyand spouted with deep sighs. Porpoises showed their glistening backsabove water, raced beside the ship, and threw themselves out intothe sunlight. Eagles winged their way from shore to shore, and duckspaddled merrily in every small bay. On masses of floating timberhovered snow-gulls, their beautiful wings lifting and closing as theirrafts were rocked in the steamer's wake.
The second day on board was Sunday. There was an Episcopal service inthe saloon in the forenoon, nearly all the excursionists assemblingand joining in the hymns. The afternoon passed quietly, many of thepassengers writing letters to home friends, some reading, some walkingor reclining in steamer-chairs on deck.
In the evening the Percivals gathered for a sing in a sheltered placenear the wheel-house. Never before did the old church tunes sound sosweetly. At nine o'clock the sky was all golden with sunset colors,reflected in the smooth waters of the Sound.
Just before that hour there had been a little silence. When two bellswere struck, Mr. Percival was seen to smile with a curious expression.
"What is it, father?" asked Bess, who was nestling close to his side.
"Why, it reminded me first of church bells, and then of an odd littleaffair in a Maine town, not far from your uncle's farm."
"Oh! tell us about it," cried two or three voices at once. "A story, astory!"
"Well, I should hardly like to turn this pleasant little Sundayevening meeting into a story-telling circle," said Mr. Percival aftera moment's pause; "but as it's all about a church, and is a sort ofChristmas story, perhaps it will do no harm. Are you warm enough,Bessie?"
"Plenty, father," replied the little Captain. "Do give us the story.I've heard you tell it before, but I always did like to see you tell."
You must fancy, as you read the next few pages, that you are on thesteamer, with collar turned up, or shawl muffled about your shoulders.Just in front of you is the story-teller, a man of about sixty, withiron-gray hair and full beard, kindly eyes and broad shoulders. Hisright arm is thrown over Bessie's shoulder as she leans against him,the little injured foot on a camp-stool before her. Mr. Selborne, quietand grave, with rather a thin face, but fine dark eyes and firm mouthunder a brown mustache, comes next. Kittie and Tom are seated on thebench that runs around the whole deck, their backs to the rail. Petis in a steamer-chair, and Randolph, Adelaide and Mrs. Percival aregrouped together, completing the circle. Half a dozen other friendshave drawn near, and are comfortably reclining, sitting or standingjust behind Pet.
A radiant path leads over the waters toward the west, where the woodedislands throw their dark, rugged summits against the sky.
The muffled splashing of the steamer's great wheels, mingled with thelow whispers of wind and sea, fill the pauses of the speaker's voice.
Overhead a brood of ocean fowl, a flock of slender-winged gulls, or asingle eagle sweep silently across the bright field of gold.
It would be impossible, as there was no shorthand writer present, togive the narrative that followed in Mr. Percival's exact words; orto reproduce the kindly twinkle of his eye as he dwelt upon the morehumorous phases of it. These you must yourself supply as you read.
THE STORY OF THE CRACKED BELL.
There was no doubt whatever of its melancholy condition. Cracked itwas, and cracked it had been for the last two years. Just how the crackcame there, nobody knew. It was, indeed, a tiny flaw, long ago coveredby green rust, and apparently as harmless as the veriest thread or awisp of straw, lodging for a moment on the old bell's brazen sides.But when the clapper began to swing, and gave one timid touch to thesmooth inner surface of its small cell, the flaw made itself known, andas the strokes grew louder and angrier, the dissonance so clatteredand battered against the ears of the parish, that after two years'patient endurance of this infliction (which they considered a directdiscipline, to humble their pride over a new coat of white paint onthe little church), one small, nervous sister rose in prayer meetingand begged that the bell be left quiet, or at least muffled for oneday, as it disturbed her daughter, whom all the village knew to besuffering from consumption.
Emboldened by this declaration of war, a deacon declared that it wasan insult to religion and its founder, to ring such a bell. It was thelaughing-stock of the village, he added, and its flat discords were buta signal for derision on the part of every scoffer and backslider inthe parish.
Other evidence of convincing character was given by various members ofthe congregation; the bell was tried, condemned and sentenced; and morethan one face showed its relief as good old Dr. Manson, the pastor,instructed the sexton publicly to omit the customary call to serviceson the following Sabbath.
"I hope," he further said, looking around gravely on his people, "thatyou will all make more than usual effort to be in your pews promptly athalf-past ten."
For a time the members of the First Congregational Society of NorthPenfield were noticeably and commendably prompt in their attendanceupon all services. They were so afraid that they should be late thatthey arrived at the meeting-house a good while before the opening hymn.Dr. Manson was gratified, the village wits were put down, and the oldbell hung peacefully in the belfry over the attentive worshipers, assilent as they. Snow and rain painted its surface with vivid tints, andthe swallows learned that they could perch upon it without danger ofits being jerked away from their slender feet.
There was no other meeting-house in the town, and as the nearestrailroad was miles away, the sound of a clear-toned bell floating downfrom the summer sky, or sending its sweet echoes vibrating through awintry twilight in an oft-repeated mellow call to prayers, was almostforgotten.
Gradually the congregation fell into the habit of dropping in of aSunday morning while the choir were singing the voluntary, or remainingin the vestibule where, behind the closed doors, they had a bit ofgossip while they waited for the rustle within which announced thecompletion of the pastor's long opening prayer. It became a rareoccurrence for all to be actually settled in their pews when the textwas given out. The same tardiness was noticeable in the Friday eveningmeetings; and, odd to say, a certain spirit of indolence seemed tocreep over the services themselves.
Whereas in former days the farmers and their wives were wont to comebustling briskly into the vestry while the bell was ringing, and thecheerful hum of voices arose in the informal handshaking "beforemeeting," soon quieting and then blending joyously in the stirringstrains of "How Firm a Foundation," or "Onward, Christian Soldier,"followed by one brief, earnest prayer or exhortation after another, inquick succession, in these later days it was quite different. It wasquite difficult to carry the first hymn through, as there were rarelyenough good singers present to sustain the air. Now it was the pianistwho was late, now the broad-shouldered mill-owner, whose rich bass wasindeed a "firm foundation" for all timid sopranos and altos; now theyoung man who could sing any part with perfect confidence, and oftendid wander over all four in the course of a single verse, lending ahelping hand, so to speak, wherever it was needed.
The halting and dispirited hymn made the members self-distrustfuland melancholy at the outset. There were long pauses during which allthe sluggish or tired-out brothers and sisters nodded in the heatedroom, and the sensitive and nervous clutched shawl fringes and coatbuttons in agonized fidgets. The meetings became so dull and heavy thatslight excuses were sufficient to detain easy-going members at home,especially the young people. It was a rare sight now to see bright eyesand rosy cheeks in the room. The members discussed the dismal state ofaffairs, which was only too plain, and laid the blame on the poor oldminister.
"His sermons haven't the power they had once, Brother Stimpson,"remarked Deacon Fairweather, shaking his head sadly, as they trudgedhome from afternoon service one hot Sunday in August. "There'ssomethin' wantin'. I don't jestly know what."
"He ain't pussonal enough. You want to be pussonal to do any good ina parish. There's Squire Radbourne, now. Everybody knows he sets upSunday evenin's and works on his law papers. I say there ought to be areg'lar downright discourse on Sabbath breakin'."
"Thet's so, thet's so," assented the deacon. "And Brother Langworthhasn't been nigh evenin' meetin' for mor'n six weeks."
From one faulty member to another they wandered; forgetting, as theyjogged along the familiar path side by side, talking eagerly, the banksof golden-rod beside them, the blue sky and fleecy clouds above, theblue hills in the distance, and all the glory and brightness of theblessed summer day.
The next morning, North Penfield experienced a shock. The white-hairedpastor, overcome by extra labor, increasing cares, the feebleness ofage, or a combination of all these causes, had sunk down upon his bedhelplessly, on his return from the little white meeting-house theafternoon before, never to rise again until he should leave behind himthe weary earth-garments that now but hindered his slow and painfulsteps.
The townspeople were greatly concerned, for the old man was dearlyloved by young and old. Those who of late had criticised now rememberedDr. Manson's palmy days, when teams came driving in from PenfieldCenter, "The Hollow," and two or three other adjoining settlements, tolisten to the impassioned discourses of the young clergyman.
A meeting of the committee was called at once, to consider the affairsof the bereft church--for bereft they felt it to be--and take steps foran immediate supply during the vacancy of the pulpit. Two months laterDr. Manson passed peacefully away, and there was one more mound in thelittle churchyard.
The snows of early December already lay deep on road and field beforethe North Penfield Parish, in a regularly called and organized meeting,was given to understand that a new minister was settled. Half a dozencandidates had preached to the people, but only one had met with favor.
Harold Olsen was a Norwegian by
parentage, though born in America. Talland straight as the pines of the Norseland, with clear, flashing blueeyes and honest, winning smile, the congregation began to love himbefore he was half through his first sermon. His sweet-faced littlewife made friends with a dozen people between services; by nightfallthe question was practically settled, and so was the Rev. Harold Olsen,"the new minister," as he was called for years afterward.
At the beginning of the second week in December, Harold ascended thepulpit stairs of the North Penfield meeting-house, feeling very humbleand very thankful in the face of his new duties. He loved his work, hispeople, his wife and his God; and here he was, with them all at once.
Sleigh bells jingled merrily outside the door; one family after anothercame trooping in, muffled to the ears, and moved demurely up thecentral or side aisles to their high-backed pews.
The sunlight found its way in under the old-fashioned fan-shaped blindsat the tops of the high windows, and rested upon gray hair and brown,on figures bowed with grief and age, on restless, eager children, onthe pulpit itself, and finally upon the golden-edged leaves of the oldBible.
Still the people came in. A hymn was given out and sung. While Haroldwas lifting his soul to Heaven on the wings of his prayer, he couldnot help hearing the noise of heavy boots in the meeting-house entry,stamping the snow. His fervent "Amen" was the signal for a draft ofcold air from the doors, followed by a dozen late comers.
After the sermon, which was so simple and straightforward that it wentdirectly to the hearts of the people, he was eager to confer with hisdeacons for a few minutes.
"The bell didn't ring this morning, Brother Fairweather. What was thematter?" he asked, after a warm hand-grasp all round.
"Why, the fact is, sir, there ain't no bell."
"That is, none to speak of," put in Deacon Stimpson apologetically."There's a bell up there, but it got so cracked an' out o' tune thatnobody could stan' it, sick or well."
The Rev. Harold Olsen's eyes twinkled.
"How long have you gone without this unfortunate bell?"
"Oh! a matter o' two or three years, I guess."
"Weddings, funerals, and all?"
"Well, yes," reluctantly, "I b'lieve so. I did feel bad when wefollored the minister to his grave without any tollin'--he was masterfond o' hearing that bell, fust along--but there, it couldn't behelped. Public opinion was against that 'ere particular bell, and wejes' got laughed at, ringin' it. So we stopped, and here we be, withoutit."
Mr. Olsen's blue eyes sparkled again as he caught his little wife'sglance, half-amused, half-pained. He changed the subject, and wentamong his parishioners, inquiring kindly for the absent ones, andmaking new friends.
At a quarter before three (the hour for afternoon service) he enteredthe meeting-house again. The sexton was asleep in one of the pews. Hewas roused by a summons so startling that a repetition was necessarybefore he could comprehend its import.
"R-ring the bell!" he gasped incredulously. "W-why, sir, it hasn't beenrung for"--
"Never mind, Mr. Bedlow," interrupted Harold, with his pleasant smile."Let's try it to-day, just for a change."
Harold had attended one or two prayer meetings, as well as Sundayservices, and--had an idea.
On reaching the entry, the sexton shivered in the cold air, and pointedhelplessly to a hole in the ceiling, through which the bell rope wasintended to play.
"I put it up inside out of the way, so's the boys couldn't get it," hechattered. "D-don't you think, sir, we'd better wait till"--
But it was no use to talk to empty air. The new minister had gone,and presently returned with a long, heavy bench, which he handled aseasily as if it were a lady's work-basket.
"Just steady it a bit," he asked; and Mr. Bedlow, with conscientiousmisgivings as to the propriety of his assisting at a gymnasticperformance on Sunday, did as he was bid.
Up went the minister like a cat; and presently down came the knottedend of the rope. "Now, let's have a good, hearty pull, Mr. Bedlow."
The sexton grasped the rope and pulled. There was one frightened,discordant outcry from the astonished bell; and there stood poor Mr.Bedlow with about three yards of detached rope in his hands. It hadbroken just above the point where it passed through the flooring overhis head.
"Now, sir," expostulated the sexton.
"Here, Dick!" called Mr. Olsen, to a bright-faced little fellow whohad put his head in at the door and was regarding these unwontedproceedings with round-eyed astonishment; "won't you run over to myhouse and ask my wife for that long piece of clothes-line that hangs upin the kitchen closet?"
Dick was gone like a flash, his curiosity excited to the highest pitch.
"What does he want it for?" asked pretty Olga Olsen, hurrying toproduce the required article.
"Don't know," panted Dick. "He's got Mr. Bedlow--in the entry--an' hesent for a rope, double quick!"
With which bewildering statement he tore out of the house and back tothe church.
Five minutes later the population of North Penfield were astounded byhearing a long-silent, but only too familiar voice.
"It's that old cracked bell!" exclaimed half a hundred voices at once,in as many families. "Do let's go to meetin' an' see what's the matter."
The afternoon's congregation was, in fact, even larger than themorning's. Harold noted it with quiet satisfaction, and gave out as histext the first verse of the sixty-sixth Psalm.
At the close of his brief sermon he paused a moment, then referred tothe subject in all their thoughts, speaking in no flippant or jestingtone, but in a manner that showed how sacredly important he consideredthe matter.
"I have been pained to notice," he said gravely, "the tardiness withwhich we begin our meetings. It is perfectly natural that we should belate, when there is no general call, such as we have been accustomed tohear from childhood. I do not blame anybody in the least. I do believethat we have all grown into a certain sluggishness, both physical andspiritual, in our assembling together, as a direct consequence of theomission of those chimes which to us and our fathers have always spokenbut one blessed word--'_Come!_' I believe," he continued, lookingabout over the kindly faces before him, "I believe you agree with methat something should be done. Don't think me too hasty or presumingin my new pastorate, if I add that it seems to me vitally importantto take action at once. Our bell is not musical, it is true, but itstones, cracked and unmelodious as they are, will serve to remind us ofour church home, its duties and its pleasures. On Tuesday evening wewill hold a special meeting in this house to consider the question ofpurchasing a new bell, to take the place of the old. The PrudentialCommittee, and all who are interested in the subject are urged to bepresent. Let us pray."
It was a wonderful "season," that Tuesday evening conference. Thecracked bell did its quavering best for a full twenty minutes beforethe hour appointed, to call the people together; and no appeal couldhave been more irresistible.
Two thirds of the sum required was raised that night. For ten daysmore the old bell rang on every possible occasion, until it becamean accusing voice of conscience to the parish. Prayer meetings oncemore began sharp on the hour, and proceeded with old-time vigor. Theinterest spread until a real revival was in progress before the NorthPenfield Society were fairly aware of the change. Still the "bell fund"lacked fifty dollars of completion.
On the evening of the twentieth of December, in the midst of a furiousstorm, a knock was heard at the parsonage, and lo, at the hastilyopened door stood Squire Radbourne, powdered with snowflakes, andbeaming like a veritable Santa Claus.
"I couldn't feel easy," he announced, after he had been relieved ofcoat and furs, and seated before the blazing fire, "to have next Sundaygo by without a new bell on the meeting-house. We must have some goodhearty chimes on that morning, sure; it's the twenty-fifth, you know.So here's a little Christmas present to the parish--or the Lord,either way you want to put it."
The crisp fifty dollar note he laid down before the delighted couplewas all that wa
s needed.
Harold made a quick calculation--he had already selected a bell ata foundry a hundred miles away--and sitting down at his desk, wroterapidly.
"I'll mail your letter," said the squire. "It's right on my way--ornear enough. Let's get it off to-night, to save time."
And away he trudged again, through the deepening drifts and the blur ofthe white storm.
On Saturday evening, after all the village people were supposed to beabed and asleep, two dark figures might have been seen moving to andfro in the old meeting-house, with a lantern. After some irregularmovements in the entry, the light appeared in the belfry, and a littlelater, one queer, flat, brassy note, uncommonly like the voice ofthe cracked bell, rang out on the night air. Then there was absolutesilence; and before long the meeting-house was locked up and left toitself again on Christmas Eve--alone, with the wonder-secret of a newsong in its faithful heart, waiting to break forth in praise of God atdawn of day.
How the people started that fair Christmas morning, as the sweet,silvery notes fell on their ears! They hastened to the church; theypointed to the belfry where the bell swung to and fro in a joyous callof "_Come! come! come! come!_"
They listened in rapt silence, and some could not restrain their sobs,while others with grateful tears in their eyes looked upon the old,rusty, cracked bell that rested, silent, on the church floor; and asthey looked, and even passed their hands lovingly over its worn sides,they thanked God for its faithful service and the good work it hadwrought--and for the glad hopes that filled that blessed Christmas Day.